Love, Santana
by Lily Mapleberry
Summary: Warning: To enjoy this, you may need to throw away your conscience. Santana writes a "lovely" letter to her "wonderful" soccer class. Rated T for strongish language, racism, and Santana meanness in general. Does not in any way reflect my actual beliefs!


**Hi guys! It's me, Lily. So I know that I have another little story going, called Dead End, but my life is so awful right now, I decided to write a little vent letter. After reading it over for my own pleasure, I realized that this sorta sounded like something Santana would write, so here I am, posting it on FF, although it may not really count because everyone's practically an OC except her. Names have been changed for the sake of privacy. Enjoy! T for strong-ish language, meanness, and racism… I get REALLY vicious when I'm venting… Ehehe…**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Glee. Wish I was good enough of a singer/actor/dancer to be ON it though! :D But who wouldn't?**

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><p>Dearest Soccer Class (Omitting the Female Population of 4, Including Me),<p>

Ever since being placed by the school guidance counselors into this pathetic hell-hole of soccer, where the sun never shines, I've slowly grown to despise each and every one of your ugly little pig testicle hearts. To no avail, I bartered with the old prune-like women sitting there in the office to get moved to something like professional dodge ball, but unfortunately, since Sue's teaching this monkey house, I have to stay or I'm off the squad.

You may be wondering why I'm writing this letter, because you clearly dislike me and in return I hate you. But despite our obviously mutual sentiments, I've decided to write exactly why you are all semi-retarded bastards to me, all rancid with the stench of testosterone, dead rabbits, ripe cheese, sour ass, and the disgusting desperation to get into the girls' pants; and how I think you could change. But let's be serious here - even if you read this a hundred times, you'd still probably be too captivated by, let's say, a passing chicken to understand. So let's start! How about with the Brits?

Hello Parker. Although I find your face freakishly gopher-ish, while Brittany and Quinn secretly find you surprisingly attractive yet weasel-like, I over all have nothing against your shaggy poo-brown hair or presence, because I still have yet to know you. Therefore I shall leave it at, "You're accent's hot, but your face looks like a tiny mammal's, painted tan and shoved in a waffle maker to create your gopher freckles." If that was too fast for you – basically, I think you're ugly.

On the other hand, your brother Andrew has a totally different place in my black heart of unicorns and sunshine. Every afternoon I pray for him, that one day he will be pushed of a cliff by geese that first castrate him brutally. If you don't understand, it means one moment you have a dick, and the next minute you don't. Yes, Andrew, I find myself wanting to grind your rheumatism-ridden bones until you can no longer walk, or play that idiotic sport you call soccer, multiple times per day. Let's begin with your appearance, because it sure intensifies my hate for you. You see, whenever I see your face, I'm vaguely reminded of a crying goldfish. Your eyes seem to be rimmed with blood stained lip-liner, which – in case you are legitimately blind or dumb – is for your lips and not your eyes. Shocker. But not that you could afford the 30 gallons required just to cover the surface area of your monstrous upper lip, or need it for that matter. Your lips are already so red that I have no other choice but to believe that you drink a big glass of melted cherry lip smackers every day before school. Besides your face, that has a gangly quality equivalent to that of Mr. Potato Head, your appalling warm up behavior is also a major turn off. What the hell do you have to gain by sticking your hands in your pants every morning? You may like watching yourself masturbate in the mirror every morning, but us girls sure DON'T. Sometimes, I wonder if you stuff a Gameboy down there to disguise your lack of manhood, and for a quick videogame before class.

Well, enough about Andrew, because in all honesty, I'll probably be insulting him again by tomorrow. He deserves a breather. Instead, I'll move on to the 2 most social awkward Asians I've ever met: Austin and Tim. Oh Austin, you are honestly the biggest try-hard ever to walk the earth. Do you think that by running and falling on the ground every few minutes you will magically transform into a star player? I bet my ass that it won't. And what's up with that gay smile permanently etched into your face? I've got nothing against homosexuals, because seriously, look at me. But if you're always broadcasting it like that in a creepy fashion, who can blame other people for feeling uncomfortable? For real, do you actually inject yourself with Botox every day while thinking it's steroids? Because seriously, that eerie grin is one of the most unattractive things since Dill Harris scrunching up his nose in that Jacob Ben Israel kid's fashion, from that book about shooting angel birds and whatnot. AND, what your taking can't possibly be steroids, because let's face it – you still have a body as fragile and feminine as Bella Swan's. Look, McKinley does have some hardcore druggies, you know, so don't be ashamed to admit it. I won't tell Figgins…yet. Even worse than your smile are probably your eyes. I'm not trying to be TOO racist, or ethnicicist, if you're picky, but Austin, are you really so Asian that you feel the need to sew your eyelids together, leaving a sliver of space to see that's only a millimeter wide? What, are you afraid of your wintery dandruff floating in the air? Well, you're not a camel, so man up. Oh wait… you can't…

Now for the other weird-ass Asian, Tim. Tim, Tim, Tim. Remember when we sat across from each other in science a couple years back? You were constantly teased for developing a major crush on Cathleen Cohen, mainly by me of course, and made multiple moves on her, even as she threatened you with a restraining order. To this day, I remember your head, shaped like a slightly deflated basketball; your voice, easily recognized by the nasally quality that can effectively make ears bleed; and your asthma, obviously faked to get attention. Hon, I know what attention depravation looks like, and I know you've got a bad case of it, because if you didn't, you would be a Cheerio. But you're not. Anyway, I'm happy to see that with your profound, stalkerish obsession for Cathleen persisting, the rest of the hopeless Neanderthals of our class have begun calling you by her name. It warms my heart to hear their gravelly pre/post pubescent voices calling, "Ball me, Cathleen!" while you pay no attention and instead write her name over and over in the wet grass with your foot, fully clad with an expression that rivals one of a homeless mental patient wearing self-made wolf pelts. Overall, your awkward personality paired with your wimpy body, fully equipped with wet spaghetti girl-arms, most likely will keep every - and any - female on this earth 15 feet away from you at all times. What a tragic love life you'll have.

To stray from the topics of a possible future, in Brittany's words, "unicorn and sex offender," I will now be moving to Jared. Jared, in simple words, you're a born douche. From your arrogant tilt of the chin, to your constantly puffed up chest, you are truly the epitome of egotistical. Even if your face is mildly attractive, the rest of your body is as equally easy on the eyes as a llama grinding against a blue-footed booby. Every time you feel the need to take of your shirt, a part of my soul just rips itself away and jumps into a blender, pre-soaked in sulfuric acid and lined with poison dart frogs. Your chest that always cries, "Look at me, I think I'm attractive!" reminds me of cat vomit and copper wire glued messily to a soggy sheet of peach-colored paper, while your premature beer gut juts out at an odd angle that, when looked at in the right light, makes me question the anatomical laws that deem only a woman fit to bear children. So the lesson is, Jared, your face is hot, your body's not. Keep the shirt on, so my eyes don't melt into puddles which would effectively hinder me from even seeing your pretty little head. And you don't want that to happen, do you?

That reminds me of George. George, your body shape is probably even worse than Jared's. You're wide, you're bulky, and basically about as frumpy dumpy as Finn. This makes me question your abilities in bed, because as far as I knew, Finn was like a big sweaty bag of potatoes, so I can't imagine you'd be much better. I'll have to pass on you. You also seem to think you're a humorous "fellow." Well, I hate to break it to you, but you're about as funny as a bloody head on a stick, and it's not the giggling kind. What I'm trying to say is, don't try to make people laugh anymore, because it gives me a migraine, and whenever I hear your voice I want to cry and join a convent. Yeah, try to picture it. Me, Santana, in a convent, all because of your terrible jokes.

Oh, and don't forget Carson! He's definitely one of the cutest things to walk the planet, AND he can actually play soccer, but of course, he has to have a helium-inflated girl's voice. Really, with all of that attractiveness, you'd think there'd be some voice changing hormone in the mix. I mean, were you born with cotton candy vocal chords or something? Now give me an honest answer; are you the voice coach for the girl who plays Strawberry Shortcake? I can only imagine that she learned that squeak of a voice from a master, and who's better at the mouse call than you? No one I expect. Maybe when I get out of Lima, I'll become a big producer and make you the star for my new show: Dora the Explorer Meets Caillou.

And then, there's Mark. Mark is probably just a condensed Andrew. The only difference is that Mark's laugh reminds me of a sperm whale, high on laughing gas, singing while in labor.

But who cares about Mark? I'd much rather complain about Thales. Thales, although I would prefer that your name be pronounced "thails" rather than "tah-less," your person itself already leaves less than to be desired. As a whole, I suspect that you are literally an ass disguised as an unruly Brazilian savage of the highland plateaus, ignorant of the raging infection caused by only eating dead anacondas, which undoubtedly is to blame for your severe brain damage. That's right, I went there, and you can't do anything about it because I'm from Lima Heights ADJACENT. I find myself reeling in nausea every time I hear you receive the ball, because whenever you shoot, your "soccer grunt" greatly resembles the cry of a donkey-goose hybrid in heat. Honestly, I wonder what you're like in bed. Do you squawk like that at every climax? If so, eugh. That's absolutely disgusting, if not completely distracting. Seriously, tone that buzzer down, will you?

Speaking of animal related people, let's talk about Harry. Although you seem to have that nerd-chic thing going, with the glasses and the checkered shirts, your appearance is just so…chimpy. There really is no other way to describe it. When I see you move it's like watching an intoxicated baboon trying to salsa.

Now the next one is a little off topic, but equally as aggravating – Joe. Now Joe, I honestly don't care that your skin is the color of a burnt white kid, because Mercedes is perfectly acceptable in my eyes. It's your little bitch attitude that REALLY gets me. Yes, that's what I said. You have a little BITCH attitude. Honestly, crying every three seconds about getting fouled when everyone is at least 5 feet away to avoid catching your conceited stupidity is not believable. NOT AT ALL. And not only that, but your constant, obnoxious laughter about Hispanics – as you try to maneuver the ball with a skill you don't seem to have – has a choking/screaming quality to it, like an ostrich with a sizzling frying pan down its throat, desperately in need of the Heimlich. Every time I hear it, I genuinely plead to the heavens that someone has shoved the ball up your nose and down your trachea so deep that your vocal chords are digested by your own stomach acids. For real, if I hear you make fun of my Abuelita one more time, I WILL mess you up. You won't even recognize that face of yours… not that it's much to look at right now anyway.

So yes, my dears. Of course, I haven't talked about EVERYONE in class, and I don't plan to, because, well, I need to keep SOME of my secrets a secret don't I? But I think I've made it perfectly clear. Every single one of you primates need to either shut up or become perfect. And seeing as neither of those requests are going to be fulfilled, I will offer you a third possibility. You WILL become civilized. You WILL become semi-intelligent. And you will NOT make passes at any of us girls, because really, we're so out of your league. Finally, YOU WILL N- oh, who am I kidding? You pineapple-faced pansy heads are too Lima brained to get any of this through your heads anyway. And besides, after my final year here at rat swamp McKinley, I'll most likely never see any of you again, unless YOU'RE watching me on TV. That's actually the happiest thought of this entire letter. Well, on that note: Cheers to a happy soccer-free future! To US! Well, actually, to me, considering that you all will most likely be too inferior to make it out of this wack job town like I will. Yup. That's right.

Love,

Santana

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><p><strong>What a lovely letter, right? Well…did you guys like it? Dislike it? I know it's mean, but there are worse things out there. And honestly, it's just a vent letter, meant for a spiteful laugh now and then. A great stress reliever if you ask me. So yeah, please let me know what you thought of it! As in, PLEASE REVIEW! I'll try to get back on schedule with Dead End and all. Key word- TRY. Until next time!<strong>

**Lil**

**REVIEW PLEASE! please? pwease? ~puppy dog eyes~**


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